In the Darkness
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: Foyle's War: In 1944, Foyle and Sam find themselves caught in an air raid in Hastings which forces them together as life hangs in the balance. It causes them to face what has been unsaid between them for too long, resulting in what neither could have before believed. Foyle/Sam
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story is actually based on my first _Foyle's War_ fanfiction that I ever wrote years and years ago. I never dared to share it, and only a few months ago when I found it again on an old external hard drive did I decide to do something with it. I rewrote it, and this was the result.

Thanks to **MKsBeautiful** for the encouragement and first reading.

No copyright infringement intended. All characters from _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz.

* * *

 **Historical note** : The last air raid went off in November 1944 in Hastings and lasted 25 minutes. Though the last bombs fell on Hastings in August 1944, I've taken a few liberties here.

* * *

 **November 1944**

The low whine of the engine hummed up comfortably through the seats as DCS Christopher Foyle relaxed against the leather. Snapshots of Hastings Old Town went past the window, familiar and unchanged even in this time of war. The car turned up the lane and he felt the need to change gear vibrating subtly under his feet. He turned slightly to watch his driver shift gear. The movement was precisely timed and done without thought. Her gauntleted hand moved back to grip the wheel and he felt a corner of his mouth lift upwards for no real reason other than the appreciation of a well-executed move. The Wolseley was an old beast to drive, yet Samantha Stewart had made it into an art form.

Sam had been seconded from the MTC in May 1940, and had arrived at the station in a flurry of khaki and endless chatter. Now, four years on, Foyle could not imagine going about his work without her. She had the gift of intimacy, this clergyman's daughter. She was able to talk of inconsequential things and put others at their ease. Whether it had come from being dutifully accommodating to the people of her father's parish — helping to serve endless cups of tea, smiling prettily at the end of chapel, manning the flower stall at each fete, or just trying to make up for something she felt she had not done — Foyle could not know. It often seemed as if her eagerness was an attempt to overcome shortcomings that had no doubt been criticised by the stern father he had met just the once. In between the moments of bright chatter from his driver, he had felt the uncertainty the oppressive vicarage had created.

The old adage, "little girls should be seen and not heard," came to mind, and he was grateful that she felt able to put aside any stifling bonds when with him. She was no little girl; she was a woman who knew her own mind, and he respected that. Her chatter was another assurance, if he needed one, of her trust in him. She felt she could be herself: to say what she thought and not worry about being on her best behaviour — there was no fear of his disappointment in her. This glowed within him.

Sam was incapable of deceit on any level and her face was as open as a book to him. She engendered immediate trust, and she was one of the few people Foyle felt truly able to be at ease with. She, too, made him feel useful; that he could serve a purpose at a time when he'd felt less than needed. He supposed after so many years working together and sharing the subtle emotions of each day it was only natural. It had come as a shock to him, one lonely Saturday when he'd been fishing, to realise that this young woman knew more about him than anyone.

He'd always been careful to keep himself on the fringes of her life as best he could. To not involve himself or interfere. That was not his place; she'd had enough of that from her own family. However, it was not for a lack of wanting to. He'd stood quietly to the side as young men tried their hand with her and ultimately failed. If she wanted advice, she would ask — he knew that. Foyle gave Andrew advice whether he wanted it or not, but that was different. Andrew was his son. While the urge to fix things for her was also strong, he refrained because he felt it was not his place.

But what was his place? Boss, certainly; but after all these years weren't they a bit more than colleagues?

He had reasoned with himself that his attention was first that of a concerned boss — when she had things on her mind it was only natural to ask and to offer help, if he could. Then, as the years went on and the hardships of war grew, he credited his attentiveness as avuncular. He was keeping an eye on her well-being, that was all. This had satisfied him until she had come into real danger, and on his watch, too. She had contracted anthrax at an infected farm all because he'd been so damned stubborn about procedure and had made her stay by the car.

He'd realised then that what he felt was affection. She was no longer just his driver, foisted on him because there was a war on, but a person he cared about. He cared about her and felt an overwhelming protectiveness that made him wonder at times.

And she had allowed him this, remarkably. She had let him stand up for her and defend her against the thoughtlessness of others. True, he did it in such an unassuming manner as possible, but he saw that she knew. _How nice it felt to be a man someone could rely on!_ She had given him so much in that respect.

But had he given her much in return? He still hid behind inner walls, not sharing his thoughts nearly as readily as she did hers. He trusted her, of course, but why should he burden her with his thoughts? She was kind to ask about Andrew; kind to ask him to attend church with her or to drive him to his late wife, Rosalind's, grave each year on the anniversary of her death. But open himself up in personal revelation — no, that he would not do. It was not that he felt unable, precisely, as talking with Sam was always a pleasant thing, and she could listen beautifully when she wanted to. There was, instead, a fear of if he were to begin, that he might never stop.

They had neared Steep Lane by now with the onset of evening inching its way across the sky. He realised he had been studying her as they drove, one forefinger over his top lip, other arm outstretched along the back of the Wolseley's bench seat. He cleared his throat and looked away, feeling slightly self-conscious.

"Penny for them?" she asked softly, not taking her eyes off the road.

He glanced back at her in surprise, unaware she had noticed his gaze. "Oh, er…well, only thinking that it has been a long day."

She turned to him then, arching amused eyebrows over sparkling eyes. "I see."

Pulling carefully to a halt, she tugged the hand brake upwards with an accustomed movement.

"Here we are. Have a nice evening, sir," she said, as she did at the end of every day together.

"You as well." He eased out of the car, and no sooner had he put a foot on the bottom step, he heard an awful high pitched sound. _Air raid siren!_

Pivoting on his heel to turn back to Sam, Foyle said swiftly and without preamble, "Leave the car there."

He nodded with his head to indicate she should follow him, and went up the steps to unlock his front door. The pitch of the siren careened around the houses of the lane and another, lower sound was behind it, sounding awful and frightening.

Standing to one side he ushered her in. "Quick now, this way."

"Do you have a shelter?" she asked in some surprise, having never seen one before on her previous visits.

"Pantry will have to do — local shelter isn't nearly close enough now."

He chivvied her towards the kitchen, grabbing, as an afterthought, his khaki haversack with gas mask inside which had lain mercifully unused so far in this war. The sound of the siren was no less loud now they were indoors, and the low pitched sound of an aeroplane engine rumbled and growled after it.

"Quick now, Sam," he said again, voice sharp with concern.

Foyle followed her down the two steps into the pantry, which was about a foot and a half below the rest of the kitchen, with a stone floor set into the earth to keep food cold. He threw the door shut behind him, and switched on the light, the lone bulb crackling above them, swinging slightly in the pressure from the slammed door.

Her eyes were wide in the shadows, and he realised his heart was beating loudly in his ears. Their eyes met across the small space. _What now_?

* * *

Sam had been aware of him staring at her in the car; he did it more often now, though she doubted he realised that she knew. It didn't bother her, but it left her feeling somewhat exposed, as if he could read her thoughts. Yet, it also made her feel appreciated. Sam knew that he thought she did her job well, and that gave her a great sense of pride. Each evening after she dropped him off as part of their daily routine, the car always felt rather empty and forlorn. As did she; without him, it seemed that she was merely waiting until the next moment they were together again.

Life outside work was dull and things were always being expected of her by her family. At work, Foyle expected her only to do her job, and her loyalty. These were easily done, whereas the expectations of her father left her wondering if any young woman caught up in the war was up to the task of complying. _Don't be seen out and about with men; don't be out after dark; be demur, polite; remain unassuming._ One day at the police station struck most of that off. It crossed her mind, somewhat morbidly, that her father would be outraged if she and Foyle were found together in the rubble if the house were bombed…there would be explaining to do, and that was always so tiresome…

With the air raid siren going off like a drowned banshee, contending with the possibility of a bomb, and being jammed in Foyle's pantry, Sam conceded that it really wasn't the best of situations. However, she was suddenly more concerned about their forced proximity than the raid overhead.

In the low light her senses seemed to be on a knife-edge and she was aware of everything in detail. Aware, for instance, that the feeling in her middle was nothing to do with the possible danger from the skies, but something else entirely. It warmed her, yet set her shivering with a sort of anxiousness.

Foyle was an upright, severely moral man whom she respected, but there were times when her thoughts got the better of her and she rather wished he wasn't. There were times, such as this evening when they drove through Hastings towards Steep Lane, when his hand rested just behind her shoulder, that her body ached for him to touch her. Just a pat on the arm or swift touch of acknowledgement, not necessarily anything untoward. There had been brief and rare moments of such contact — the GI dance two years ago, for example, when he had ushered her in with a light touch at the small of her back — and it left her curious for more. He was such a reserved man, that she was desperate to know more of him. He never would say what he was thinking, but instead went over all quiet, much as he had done this evening. She had begun to learn how to read him, however, and knew somehow that his mild observation of her in the Wolseley had been both appreciative and wistful.

The thrill of being here now with him was severely dampened by the immediate danger of the enemy's bombs, but the feeling was there nonetheless. Perhaps she was wrong to feel this way towards him; maybe it was a naive fancy towards a man of authority and conscience. But unlike some men, these were attractive and complementary to his nature; he could be cold and demanding, but there was, at times, a boyish charm that softened his edges and revealed to her that he was a man like any other, equally susceptible to her wheedling and charm.

Acquiescing to her, however, had never seemed to overly put him out; giving her dinner at Carlo's, or tea at the Pavilion; or going undercover at the petrol depot, or being allowed to help out the Land Girl's at the farm: these he had agreed to, and never once had he held them over her for something in return. He treated her with respect and never belittled her; he saw past her uniform and her misfortune of being a girl in a world of war and men, and allowed her to make her own choices. He remained always present in the background, there to help should she want him. This unassuming manner endeared him to her like nothing else. It allowed her to feel self-assured as well as graceful, somehow.

He was brilliant like that. Never pushing in when he wasn't wanted, or giving advice when it wasn't needed, or making decisions for her; he spoke to her like an equal and quite clearly had her best interest at heart. Her father, the Reverend Stewart, was the just the opposite. When she became angry with her father for presuming, he often claimed that he was just thinking of her best interest. Not that Mr Foyle was like a father… _what was he like?_

Mr Foyle was her boss, of course, and she _would_ like to say he was a friend. But there were times when the connection between them was far more than anything else she had ever experienced with the male sex. It went deeper, calling up something altogether ancient within her. It made her wonder at herself, and she often prayed fervently at night, hoping it would go away and leave her in peace. But it hadn't. It kept her awake with a longing that she wasn't sure she understood. Why did she long for him? She should be falling head over heels for some dashing serviceman; or for someone who was a close friend, like Brookie, the desk sergeant at the station.

Now, they stood in the confined space of his pantry, the light swinging to and fro above them, casting bouncing shadows on the shelves and stone floor, and catching at the brightness of his eyes. Revealed there was fear, concern, and a softness that she hadn't expected. He was tense and clearly thinking of what to do.

Trying to think too, hoping together they might come up with some idea, Sam suddenly exclaimed, "I've left the key in the ignition." She moved towards the door in a panic.

"Couldn't matter less, Sam," he said in exasperation, pulling at her arm and steering her towards the back of the pantry.

"But if the car is pinched, I won't be able to drive you," she protested, her 'Sam logic' making him smile slightly.

"Can you not _hear_ the siren?" He gestured with his hand. "You'll stay put, thank you very much."

Pushing his hat up on his forehead, Foyle scratched just above his right eyebrow for a moment before whipping his hat off and tossing it onto the shelf in front of him.

"Sorry, sir."

"For what?"

"The car."

"Oh, forget the car, Sam," he said with a huff of impatience.

He looked around him once more, as if trying to find a clue to what they could do to better protect themselves. The pantry itself was well built, with cold stone tiles over a dirt floor to keep food stuffs preserved and situated towards the back of the house under the stairwell. As long as there wasn't a direct hit or an incendiary bomb, they stood a good chance. In a pinch this was, in fact, the safest place.

Seemingly, Foyle had made up his mind, and he began to move heavy things off the lower shelves to safety. Then he pulled a sack of potatoes from the back to make a sort of seat for her. He shrugged off his long overcoat, folding it to pad out the seat a bit, and motioned with his chin for her to sit down.

"Keep your head down," he murmured.

Just then a terrific boom sounded, shaking the ground, rattling the jars on the pantry shelves, and making them both jump out of their skins. Something had hit a bit further down the street, it would seem. The light above them suddenly flickered before it went out completely.

Foyle muttered an oath and began rummaging along one shelf. "Torch here somewhere… or at least there _was_ …" He moved and then swore loudly as his shin hit a box of some sort.

Sam reached into the tunic of her uniform, pulled out her lighter and clicked it, the flame flickering from the tremor in her hand.

"Well done, Sam," he said quietly, looking around the shelves as she held it higher.

He couldn't seem to find the torch and when another rumble began through the hideous wail of the air raid siren, Sam said in shaky voice, "If you wouldn't mind awfully, sir, would you come sit down, please?"

He looked over at her softly. "Won't the dark bother you?" The glow from her lighter was already beginning to fade.

"Not really. If you don't mind."

"Not at all," he said kindly. With his easy grace, he moved swiftly across the stone floor to sit beside her on the makeshift seat on top of the sack of potatoes. Sam snapped her lighter closed and they were thrown into pitch darkness.

 _TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It is a curious thing when bereft of sight by utter darkness that other senses begin to take over. They sat quietly in the dark for a bit; it seemed like ages, though Foyle guessed it was only five minutes or so. His hearing sharpened, the wail of the siren undulating and setting his nerves on edge. Shifting, he felt his shoulder touch Sam's beside him, and he was surprised to feel her shaking. She was a brave and plucky young woman, but he had to admit that this was not an easy situation. Feeling emboldened by the dark, Foyle moved to put an arm around her. She neither started nor shrugged it away, but instead turned slightly so that she fit against him perfectly, her hand settling disarmingly against his chest.

Foyle swallowed hard. "All right, Sam?"

"Yes, I think so. Do you mind?"

A note of fear made her voice quiver, and he tightened his grip around her shoulder.

"No. Just sorry you're in this mess."

"Glad you're here, sir."

He squeezed her shoulder and made a small hum of acknowledgement. His stomach swooped, a sudden thrill catching at him unawares. _Don't even think about it, man,_ he admonished himself severely. He must not allow his affection for her to outweigh what was appropriate. It would be taking advantage, and that he could never do. But, _Christ,_ he wanted to… He felt her still trembling against him.

In the darkness, his sense of smell was now also heightened. He could easily distinguish the scent of his own sweat as it slid down his neck, the hessian cloth full of earthy smelling potatoes, and _Sam_. Hers was a sweet scent, drifting upwards from her hair. Some kind of soap perhaps? It seemed so oddly fitting to be sat here on top of foodstuffs, smelling the earth and Sam. If they were hit by a bomb, he would gladly be carried into the next world with these two scents in his nostrils.

But what really affected him was something entirely different; so subtle, and yet he recognised it immediately. He heard her breathing deepen, whooshing outward from her nose as she struggled to keep it even. It was unmistakable. Though he could not see her face, he _knew_ , and it filled him with a relieved awe. He was not alone in these feelings. The recognition of all this jammed some primal part of him into gear. It was lust; pure and honest desire, and there in the darkness with nothing between them but propriety and a quickly fading sense of calm, Foyle, too, began to shake.

His senses tingled, reaching out amongst the inky black to seek her. He could almost picture her: teeth chattering; hair coming out of its up-do to tickle his ear; the tie of her uniform slightly loosened, as his own was; shirt sticking to her back where he felt the heat of her radiating against his arm still tight around her shoulders; skirt rucked up slightly, perhaps, from the awkward seat here in the back of his pantry. He imagined her lips somewhat parted; her eyes wide in the dark in a futile attempt to see, and cheeks flushed from anxiety.

 _Damn it all, Foyle… stop_. Despite his best intentions, he was well and truly aroused, and he mentally kicked himself, trying to focus on anything else but the young, precious woman by his side that he was duty-bound to protect. His nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply in an attempt to calm himself.

"Do you think we'll be all right?" she asked him, voice a whisper near his ear.

"Do I think — of course we'll be all right," he replied with feigned composure. "It'll be over soon."

"Are you ever afraid to die?"

"What?"

"I often think I'm not afraid to, but when it comes down to it, sir… I rather think I am."

"That's only normal, Sam."

Speak to her, calm her, he told himself. Take her mind off things. _Take your own bloody mind off things…_

Foyle cleared his throat. "I used not to be… In the last war I…" he swallowed very hard, the sudden image of a young woman standing on a shoreline, telling him goodbye, her face broken by sadness and sense of duty, rising up in his mind's eye. It seemed to catch at his throat, so he took a steadying breath.

"...I became reckless. It didn't seem to matter if I lived or died. And when Rosalind…passed… Well, I often wished… You see, living without someone is perhaps harder than losing them. Um, very selfish of me of course, as Andrew needed me…and perhaps I should have done more…" His voiced dropped, "Probably still should…"

"You mustn't blame yourself…" Her voice was stronger now, and he heard her hesitate before she continued. "Andrew isn't the only one who needs you…"

"I suppose so."

"My father says we have to forgive ourselves so we can move on."

"I expect he's right."

"He'd also say we should pray at this moment…"

Foyle could picture Sam biting her lip. It seemed to him that she constantly fought a sort of inner battle of doing what came naturally and doing what was expected. "Do you, er, want to?"

"Not really. Sorry, sir."

He gave a small smile and squeezed her shoulder gently. "Perfectly fine, Sam."

They were silent for a moment. He wondered if she could hear his heart beating. It seemed to want to leap out of his chest.

"Mr Foyle…"

And he felt nearly undone by the sudden warmth in her voice. It was not a voice he had heard her use before; it was low and soft and sent shivers right down his spine. In his mind he swore again. Clearing his throat, he managed: "Hmm?"

Before she could speak again, an almighty bang sounded, muffled by distance and walls, but enough of an impact wherever it was to make the ground shudder. Jars on the shelves around them rattled, one jar tipping over and rolling to shatter on the tile. The sweet smell of cranberries filled the air. Sam scrabbled at him, endeavouring to get as close as she could, as if somehow he could protect her.

"It's all right," he murmured, trying to sooth her. He pulled her tight against his side, and rubbed her shoulder. His other hand had unconsciously gripped her knee, arm across her body to shield her somehow. Their faces were very close. He could feel her breath against his cheek.

"If we die here, sir, I'm glad I'm with you at least."

"Don't say that, Sam. We'll be fine."

"No, I mean it." He felt her pull back as if to look at him, though neither could see the other in the overwhelming darkness. "Look, if we're about to have a bomb fall on our heads, it's best you know once and for all…"

"Know wha—" But he was cut off as her hand cupped his cheek, and her lips found his as if by a magnet.

Her kiss was tentative, though her aim had been true. Foyle was so taken by surprise, that it took a moment or two for him to react, and when he did —God help him— he kissed her back, a sudden fire flaming his blood.

Foyle now began to indulge in his other senses, touching her, tasting her. His hands gripped her tightly to him, feeling the press of her breasts against the expanse of his chest, now rising and falling rapidly. His right hand soon found its way inside her tunic, cupping a breast.

"Sam," he murmured weakly, all senses within him overcome. _I shouldn't be doing this…_ He faltered, his mind objecting numbly.

As if recognising he was about to protest, Sam kissed him harder, and Foyle's mind went blank. He only recognised the sensation of her lips against his own. His heart soared as a delicious thrill went through him. It was as if he were being beckoned home by a familiar touch. It felt neither wrong nor inadequate…but simply _right_. To be kissed by Sam with such tenderness and passion was better than he had imagined it could ever be; and imagined it, he had. Day after day beside this engaging young woman who filled him purpose and gave him looks he cherished...yes, he had imagined all sorts of fancies. Could he be dreaming this even now?

"Sir…" she breathed, voice barely more than a low whisper.

Foyle's heart leapt. He desperately didn't want to be reminded of his duty as _sir_ … "Christopher…call me Christopher…"

"Is this what you were thinking about…earlier in the car?" she murmured when he broke away from her lips to bury his face into her neck, kissing and sucking at the pulse point now beating out a staccato rhythm. " _Christopher_ …"

He paused, chuckling slightly, "Er, no…"

" _I_ was." She found his lips again, delighting in shocking him. Her hands were at his hips, and she brought her right hand down to stroke his thigh.

He gave a soft growl in return. _The little minx…_

At the force of his returned kiss, her lips parted, and he slid his tongue along the edge of her lips questioningly. Her response was eager, taking his tongue into her mouth, and letting the tip of hers touch his in curious abandonment. Her tongue was smooth and slippery, delightfully probing… her lips were hungry and possessive…It was _electrifying_.

All of his senses seemed to be straining towards her. His breathing was deep and sounded loud in the darkness around them. The small moan she suddenly uttered made him want to ravish her. This brought him up short, shocked as he was into sense by such a violent emotion.

He pulled away hurriedly. "Sam, we mustn't. We can't."

"I want to be with you. I want to… give…give myself to you." Though she hesitated with her words, perhaps surprised herself by her sudden boldness, her intent was not hesitant in the least.

"Sam, we can't… I couldn't. It would be unforgivable."

"Why?"

"I…I, er…I mean, well…" Foyle stopped, at a loss. The roar of his blood still pounded in his ears and he fought for some kind of control. Finally, he sighed and said, "It wouldn't be right."

"Why ever not? I want you to. Don't you —"

"That is hardly the point. It would be inappropriate of me to—" he gasped as she pressed herself against him, feeling her hand come up to his cheek, her thumb smoothing the wrinkles of his frown around his eyes that she somehow instinctively knew were there. "God help me, I so want to…" he murmured, sighing again.

Sam stroked his cheek as if to soothe him. His breathing was heavier now, and he began to feel his body react in a way it had not done in years. Her kiss had thrilled him, but now he felt his insides twisting as a long quiet desire rose to a desperate thrumming. It threatened to consume him.

"Nothing you could do would ever be unforgivable. Truly."

Her hand moved from his face, sliding down the slope of his arm to catch up his hand. She drew it towards her. "I shouldn't like to make you feel wretched about it…to pressure you. But surely of all moments, when we're jammed in here together with bombs overhead…no room for secrets, but just us together…Christopher, please…this is _us_."

"Us…" He murmured, sighing deeply and squeezing her fingers. "You are so cherished, Samantha…know that above all things. I, um… I may have no right to say it, but I do believe it. If we walk out of here in one piece, I don't think I'll ever regret a thing. Knowing you, has made it entirely worth it…And to know that you could feel something for me...well, you've made me feel very fortunate."

"Then come here." She drew him closer still and he felt her guide his hand underneath her skirt where a warmth beckoned. He froze, half pulling his hand away. "Sam, we _can't_. I haven't…um, I can't protect you…"

"It doesn't matter."

"Sam…"

She sought to stifle his protest, gripping his hand tightly. She guided it higher along the softness of her thigh, up to the silk of her underthings, past downy hair, to the warmth of her. He gasped loudly. He felt the tightness of her virginity around his fingers, and the welcoming warm wetness. _Oh, God, how wet she is_ … He moved a second finger and felt her arch against him, exhaling loudly through her nose as he took her by surprise.

He _must_ have her. A primordial calling pounded through him and he wanted to grab her by the hair, rip all barriers of clothing from her, and take her from behind, to thrust again and again… to push her against the wall of this pantry, possessing her until he was satiated. He wanted to bare his teeth and mark her, so as to make her _his_. A cloak of desire settled around him, and he was panting with the effort of restraining himself against its call.

And yet - another part of him wanted to preserve the beauty of her, to take his time over her and make much of her, and to show her what pleasure could be found. He felt it all battling within him. Sighing heavily, Foyle murmured, "Oh Sam…"

She moved against him, causing him to groan with a carnal longing. "Darling man," she whispered through the dark, finding the heart of him. It was enough to be held in her arms, to feel her lips against his own, curious and hopeful. She gave him a sense of calm, as if her lips he kissed seemed to say, _I'm here, I'm yours, I'm not afraid._

Then the feeling of needing to possess her slipped away, swallowed by the enormity of her loving spirit. It was not merely a feeling of confidence in the actions they now embarked on, but rather as if he knew the sudden verity of what lay between them. It was pure and reciprocal and all their own.

"You deserve," he began, voice catching as he gave a small, panting breath, "so much more…"

"No…" She tugged the barrier of her long skirt out of the way, and moved her knees apart to invite him closer. "It's _you_ I want…it will always be you…"

With a small sigh, he whispered, "I don't think I can be quite... _gentlemanly_ about this…you deserve time taken over this, Sam—"

"We haven't _got_ time," she said. Her voice was low and echoed the urgency he felt. "We might be blown up any moment."

While he kissed her deeply, plunging his tongue into her mouth, his fingers began a rhythmic ministration, and like clay, she was pliable to his hands. He felt her opening for him, and though never a man to beg, he whispered, "Christ, Sam, I want you…"

Sam's hands were at his trouser buttons, touching him and undoing fastenings with surprising alacrity, hands ready to meet him and guide him. His arousal leapt at her touch, straining towards her, desperate to feel the beckoning warmth so near.

The _all clear_ sounded but they ignored it, lost in their own world of enveloping darkness and passion. With a final groan of acquiescence, Foyle gave in — not to her, but to himself, relinquishing the weight of self-doubt. With a few swift moves he was against her, sliding home with great relief. He sighed heavily; he was where he most wanted to be. His lips were against her cheek, eyes shut tightly at the sensation of her narrow warmth, as waves of unadulterated pleasure washed over him. He moved, daring himself to seek more.

Sam gave a stifled whimper; not necessarily of pain or fear, rather more of surprise.

"Have I hurt you?"

"No, no…" she murmured throatily, voice sounding like silk against his ear. "But…slowly…slowly…slow…"

Foyle moved as carefully as he could, feeling his way inside her, pausing at times when he felt her trembling, wondering if he would last. They moved together, sometimes awkwardly, knocking their heads together or slipping on the unstable, makeshift seat. After the second time this happened, they laughed softly with one another.

"All right?" Foyle asked softly. He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

"More than I've ever been…" her voice drifted up to him dreamily.

Foyle nuzzled into her neck, one hand guiding her left leg around him. Now Sam was anchored more firmly, he felt he could move with more assurance. "You are so beautiful, Sam."

She chuckled, licking his ear playfully. "You can't even see me…"

"I don't need to…" he said affectionately.

Sam ran her hand up across his shoulder, catching at the back of his neck, fingers sinking into the soft, and now greying, curls there. "Sweet man…"

They couldn't see a thing, but the sense of touch was perhaps heightened for that, and Foyle felt everything more sharply than he had ever done before. He felt the tight pinch of his wristwatch as he held himself above her. He felt her warmth alternately gripping him and opening for him. It spurned him on as another wave of desire rose to claim him.

Now, in this better position, Foyle pulled away ever so slightly, before plunging back inside her fully. She arched towards him, dragging him deeper, and then his mind left him. From somewhere inside him, instinct took over. His movements, regular, powerful, possessing, overwhelmed her, and he felt her respond. Sam's fingers dug into his back through his clothes, clinging and urging. Her breath was hot against his neck; at times, her teeth nipped at the flesh where his neck joined his shoulder.

Her noises were sweet and seductive: whimpers full of delighted surprise and wonder, gasps that made his hair stand on end, and small cries that his deep kisses stifled. In other moments, as his thrusts increased, she fought for breath, and he murmured softly, "Breathe, Sam…I've got you…" And he slowed again to allow her to catch her breath, pausing to delight in the sensation of being buried deep within her.

Soon, however, he was barrelling towards an precipice. Her hands flew to the back of his head, her fingers scraping through his curls to grip him tightly to her breast, shuddering around him and crying out. He soon followed, leaping gratefully into the abyss.

A flame burned within him, not merely of passion but of possession; he had made her _his_ , and it hearkened back to a primal satisfaction. He crumpled against her, his breathing ragged, feeling the rise and fall of her own chest as she fought to find her breath.

Foyle wanted to speak; to say a thousands things. But he had left his voice behind in the time that would ever now be _before_. Kissing her, he sighed, nudging her nose with his as he broke away. He leaned his head against her shoulder as he moved to one side so as not to crush her with his weight.

Through the dark above his head she whispered, "It is a wonderful thing: love." Then she cried a bit as he gathered her to him, and he heard the soft sobs rise up through her chest to escape with silent tears.

 _TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It became cold and Foyle stirred beside her. "We should move."

Sam thought his voice sounded very soft and husky. It was comforting to hear it, and she nodded against his shoulder, sniffing loudly. She felt a bit embarrassed about crying like that right after. She hadn't meant to, but it was such a relief. All of it: being alive, being in love, being able to share herself with him. And it hadn't been awful or overly painful like the girls from the MTC had said it would be. It had been uncomfortable at first, of course, but he had stirred something within her that she hadn't ever realised before. It overshadowed any shyness or awkwardness. She felt as if she had, at last, stepped into her own skin to become the woman she was destined to be. He had brought that out in her, as he did so many things.

Just as in their work together, he had been encouraging and hadn't made her feel she was doing it wrong. He had delighted in her and she felt somehow more confident and beautiful than ever. How did he do it? How was it that he could make her feel all the best things about herself — bringing them to the fore, so that she might recognise them? She loved him more now, in this moment, than she thought was possible. Her chest felt like it might burst with joy.

Foyle helped her up and she heard the sound of clothing being tucked in and fastened. She felt the cool air against the exposed top of her chest and neck, but did not endeavour to do up her tunic. She wanted nothing more than to be shod of it entirely; to divest Foyle of his clothing, too, and feel their skin against one another. It was a shocking thought, perhaps, that she should want more of him. But she wanted to embark on more of this love making that had opened up these new vistas. He had the lit the fire of passion as well as curiosity in her, and she greedily wanted to understand the intricacies that had been merely hinted at in their coupling.

Pushing the pantry door open, Foyle stepped out cautiously and looked around them in the pitch darkness of the winter evening, trying to make out any possible damage within the house. He tried the light switch again, but the power was still out. Perhaps the main power supply had been bombed or knocked out?

Sam fumbled in her tunic pocket, found her lighter, and clicked it, holding it high to cast the light of the flame further. She reached out and took his hand, and he led her slowly through the kitchen to the sitting room.

"It seems all right. Must have hit further down. I'll make a fire to warm us up and give us a some light."

He pulled her into an embrace, their bodies flush, and Sam felt a surge of desire sweep through her unexpectedly. He sighed a sort of grateful sigh, one full of relief, and the desire sank further still. She turned to find his lips, kissing them sweetly, grateful for his reassuring touch. A cool wetness slipped past her already sodden knickers and she felt it on the inside of her thigh. His seed was escaping her as gravity took over, though she wasn't aware of this fact. She looked down in surprise.

Foyle squeezed her arm. "Would you, er, like to use the facilities?"

She blushed.

He smiled softly at her, rubbing her arm in indication that all was well.

Sam nodded, feeling, rather than perhaps completely understanding, this assurance. "Yes, thank you."

"Go carefully, won't you?"

"I remember the way."

His smile deepened, and the blue of his eyes, mere dark smudges in the gloom, seemed to glisten. "I'll get the fire going."

"All right."

Sam slipped upstairs quietly, guided by memory and the small flame of her lighter. The sudden distance from him made her feel quite alone, and she shivered. She would try to be as quick as possible. Once in the bathroom she left the door open to the landing, feeling her way along the wall for the tap. She ran some water into the sink and splashed her face. _That felt better already_. Within minutes she was out of her clothes, and she ran a damp flannel over her skin. It was incredibly refreshing, and she felt the fear and concern about the raid which had settled on her in the pantry disappear entirely.

Luckily, her stockings had fared well, and he hadn't torn any buttons off her shirt. She folded everything carefully, and left her knickers to dry on the side of the bath after rinsing them. Moving carefully across the cold tiles she felt along the back of the door for the dressing gown she remembered he usually put there.

In 1940, she had been bombed out of her billet and had stayed for nearly a week in this house with Foyle. How long ago it seemed now! But, she doubted much had changed in his daily routine. True enough, she felt the soft threads of his dressing gown between her fingers, and she pulled it on. It smelled wonderfully of him, and she buried her nose deep within its folds before tying the belt tightly around her middle.

Sam made her way back downstairs quietly. Her stomach growled and she wondered if Foyle would offer her anything to eat. Inside the sitting room she saw him hunched by the hearth, holding kindling out to the flame. He had stripped off his jacket and tie and wore only his shirt and an open waistcoat over his grey trousers. A tuft of hair at the back of his head stood up at an odd angle and she was reminded of how she had raked her fingers through it as she had felt the shattering waves of pleasure capture her. Something stirred in her middle that had nothing to do with need for food.

The flames rose higher in the grate and he sat back on his heels to watch the fire grow. Sam was struck by the maleness of him, noticing it in his lines of his shoulders and arms, how the muscles stood out against the tightness of his shirt, or the way his thighs bulged against the material of his trousers as he crouched there. The firelight played across his face, and gave him a youthful and thoughtful look. _Foyle by firelight_. She wanted him to turn and see her, while equally she wanted to go on studying him quietly. He was beautiful to see in this moment of satisfied reflection. He radiated some kind of peace that she wanted to latch onto.

Sam knew, then, that only he could fill the space inside her that craved love and affection; only he could fulfil all the questions and longings she had ever known. It was Christopher Foyle that she loved, completely and utterly, and the realisation was one of solace. As if she had reached the end of a road to find him waiting for her. She sighed happily and he looked up quickly, face breaking into a soul warming smile.

"Sam."

He stood gracefully, reaching out his hand for her. She came around the side of the sofa and saw he had been busy while she had been making her ablutions. A small rug before the fire had been set with a sort of indoor picnic: tea things on a tray, a tin of pears, half a loaf of bread, and a heel of cheese.

"What a feast!"

"Well...couldn't let you starve."

She smiled at him. He smiled in return, one hand reaching out to caress the soft material of his dressing gown on her.

"Suits you."

"You don't mind?"

"Certainly not." He pulled her closer and sighed into her ear: "Goodness, how wonderful you are, Sam."

Her arms came around his neck as she hugged him tightly. "Oh, I am so grateful, Christopher. How lucky I am to have been with you. You've not only saved our lives, but you've given me everything. My life here in Hastings; my job with you; love...everything."

She kissed him, mouth open and tongue searching, a returning desire on the heels of her words.

He eventually broke away to whisper, "You know that I love you, Sam? Do you mind me saying it?"

"No." She broke into a wide grin. "Say it again."

He gave a small huff of laughter. "I love you, Samantha Stewart."

"And I love you." She nudged the tip of his nose with hers. "Christopher Foyle. Always."

He squeezed her and sighed happily. "We'd better eat something."

"You know just the right things to say to a girl," she teased, sitting down gladly and gazing at the spread.

Foyle sat down opposite her and poured two cups of steaming tea. Sam looked around them, wondering where to begin.

"Shall I cut some bread? Or perhaps open the tin?"

"The tin," she said decisively, feeling a bit parched and the thought of soft fruit setting her mouth to salivating.

Foyle made her a small plate of things, and she began to eat with relish. After a few bites she gave a soft groan of satisfaction and nodded her head. "Lovely…"

He watched her softly, smiling his half smile that in the firelight made him look incredibly wise. She swallowed and grinned at him, heart beating faster as a sudden rush of love for him came over her. They ate silently and quickly, sharing glances and small smiles and letting their eyes run over the other, remembering. Now they could see one another in the dancing light of the fire, and their gazes were long and unabashed. Foyle seemed different to Sam now, as if she were seeing him for the first time. He was lovely; unbelievably lovely.

At last, when the food was depleted, with only crumbs and tea dregs remaining, Sam sat back with a sigh, resting her back against the edge of the sofa. She closed her eyes and listened to him moving about, collecting plates and tea cups. She wanted to help, but she was suddenly exhausted.

She must have dozed off slightly, because she gave a small start when she felt his lips against her temple.

"I know I should let you sleep...but you look so lovely…" he murmured, voice deep and low by her ear.

Sam curled into him, breathing him in and nestling against him. Her eyes were half open and she could see his upside down smile. It sent a flutter of butterflies right through her middle and she breathed in sharply, desire returned in full force.

Their lips found one another and his kiss was hard, yet tender, demanding, and yet tentative. She kissed him back, unleashing her passion for him. She wanted all of him in that moment, greedy for his attentions and ministrations. They hardly paused for air, and when they did, their chests heaved and mouths gasped. They laughed together softly, and Foyle took her arms, moving her gently down on the blanket where they'd had their picnic.

She smiled up at him, relaxing under his weight, moving her legs to feel him against her. With one hand, Foyle spread the dressing gown, taking in the sight of her and admiring her breasts where the nipples lay taught and creamy brown, as well as the shape of her middle, and curve of her hips.

"Gorgeous darling," he whispered, sinking down to capture a nipple in his mouth. Her hands went to his head, fingers catching at the curls in his hair, encouraging him with eagerness. His movements, which before in the pantry had been quick, were now incredibly, achingly slow. He moved across her body leaving no part untouched, exploring and delighting in its newness. He seemed everywhere at once with his lips and tongue, and he soon kissed in between her thighs, surprising her. Sam felt her back arch towards him, wanting him only to find the warmth of her so that they might be joined again. She moaned again and again, drawing out the words as she whispered, "Oh, Christopher…"

His fingers moved inside her, making ready his path. Sam strained against him and suddenly felt the hard flesh of him claiming her. She sighed, relief and pleasure mingled with a need to feel his strength. Her hands clasped his back tightly, keeping him close. Foyle nuzzled her neck as he lowered himself carefully against her, wrapping her warmly in a full body embrace.

Their lovemaking was measured and slow, occupied with learning the shapes of the other with a tenderness that seemed everlasting. She loved the feel of him: the shape of his back beneath her hands, the way his muscles rippled as he thrusted gently, and the way his chin nestled perfectly under her ear where his lips caressed her skin. Time seemed to be non-existent; there was only each other, the crackle of the fire, and what they shared. A world beyond that room seemed unthinkable, and Sam lost herself gladly in the love she shared with this man. Together, they created something new just for them, and she felt that she left her old self behind as she emerged into a new version of herself: a young woman, loved and cherished, full of desire for love and life, and happy in the knowledge that her sentiments were returned by a man she admired and respected.

There were merely embers in the fireplace, and the birds had begun to sing by the time they slipped into sleep. Sam smiled against Foyle's shoulder where she lay. A new day was beginning, moving from darkness into the soft light of morning. A new day in which everything had changed and would now be different.

 _TBC?..._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : Thank you to those of you who have written in with comments and have urged me on. It's always a pleasure to know that others are enjoying one's story. This is a little something for Valentine's Day, and the last chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

Feeling both cold and stiff, Sam stirred and nestled closer to Foyle's body, seeking the heat from his skin. He, too, stirred and cracked one eye open. Uttering a small groan, he shifted before muttering about the hardness of the floor. Foyle sat up and pulled her with him. He whispered in her ear, "Come on then, let's find somewhere more comfortable."

Taking her hand, Foyle led her upstairs. Sam smiled broadly, feeling very naughty, as if they were sneaking about like rebellious children. They were both naked in the soft light that tried to make its way through the glass and around curtains. She felt excitement rising through her middle again at the sight of him. He was still trim, the war rations having helped with any excess fat he might have otherwise acquired, and his barrel chest was only slightly hairy. She admired his legs and shapely buttocks as she climbed the stairs behind him, and was gratified with a glimpse of his front as he turned to her at the top of the stairs. Her stomach contracted and she sucked in her breath audibly. Seeing that part of him was both fascinating and overwhelming as his own desire returned.

They entered his bedroom, and Foyle led her to bed and pulled back the counterpane. They lay down beside each other, and Foyle put out his hand to reach for her. Sam could not lie still however, wanting to see more of him, and to explore his body now that she had been given such a satisfying glimpse. They kissed hard and long, tongues exploring the other's mouth deeply. Sam gave a small groan, a flush of desire sinking through her. Foyle guided her on top of him and it seemed almost too easy that Sam should feel him beneath her before she sank gladly down, taking him inside her with delight. It was so fulfilling somehow. She could not explain it, but she wanted him more than anything and the sudden urgency that overcame her fuelled their lovemaking. It was new, and yet not so, as if she were guided by some ancient instinct, and their eagerness made up for any fumbles. She loved seeing his face in the soft dawn as he gasped with delight or gritted his teeth against some inner primal feeling.

Foyle sat up, taking her by surprise, and moved gently in rhythm with her. Sam threw her head back, amazed at the change in feeling and delighting in his closeness. Their chest touched and she imagined she could feel his heart beating wildly. She finished before he did, crying out with the surprised pleasure of it, and he grinned against her lips as he kissed her. Sam felt him release inside her, which gave her a sort of satisfaction she could not deny.

They lay, curled within one another's limbs, and slept heavily, worn out and finally able to relax in warmth and comfort. The morning came and went without them, and it was nearly noon before Sam woke. Her stomach growled and she sighed slightly, hungry, yet sated in quite another way.

She began to think, heart swooping with romance, before beating faster with practicalities. Sam knew Foyle well, and she thought this bliss that they had experienced in the last twenty-four hours would not last. He would soon become upright and either send her on her way for the sake of decency and propriety, or worse, send her home to her father because he would feel ashamed of what he had done. Suddenly, these floods of worries of what Foyle may or may not do became so overwhelming that she sat up, trembling at the thought of being sent away in disgrace. She began to cry, head held in her hands.

Foyle woke with a start and sat up too, putting a hand on her arm. "Sam, darling, what is it?"

"Christopher, don't send me away, please don't."

"What?"

His voice was croaky with sleep. It was immensely endearing and she turned and buried her head in his shoulder, clasping his bare back with her hands tightly.

"Don't send me away…" she gave a small hiccup as a fresh wave of tears claimed her.

"Sam?" Foyle pulled back a bit to look at her. "Darling, whatever do you mean? I'm not going to send you away. We shall have to get up and find a change of clothes and be a _bit_ sensible, but I'm not sending you away."

He stroked her cheek and gave her a small smile. "Sam? What is it?"

"I was afraid you'd become very stern and think we'd behaved badly and … and… and not want me."

Foyle grinned, despite himself. "You've worked yourself up into a right state for nothing."

He wiped away a tear and tilted her head towards him. "Sam, my darling, we must be a bit practical: we can't hide away here forever, and life must go on as normally as possible. But not want you? Nothing could be _farther_ from the truth."

He pulled her down again, and she lay against him, her breathing beginning to calm at last.

Sam gave a large sniff and looked at him. "I've been rather silly. Sorry, Christopher. I suppose I thought you'd not want others judging and would send me home to get me out of the way."

Foyle frowned slightly. "Goodness, Sam, surely you know me a bit better than that? I should never send you anywhere against your will." He pinched her bottom gently and cocked his head to one side comically. "I doubt I could."

They smiled at one another, and Sam laughed suddenly. "You aren't going to become very proper on me?"

Foyle smirked. "Rather too late for that, my dear. _No_. I'm going to keep you with me in Hastings; marry you; raise a family with you. I want you more than anything in the world, and I want to be with _you_. And if that is what you want too, my darling girl, then we shall make a life together."

Sam began to cry again and nodded.

"Too much?" He asked hastily.

Sam sniffed. "I love you, Christopher Foyle. I want to be your wife. I don't care a tuppence about what others might say. You and I function so wonderfully together; if people _truly_ care about us, they will be only happy for us."

"I couldn't have said it better myself." Foyle kissed her sweetly, reassuring her with a nudge from his nose. He pulled her close. "So...um, that's settled then?"

They both began to laugh, and Sam covered his face with kisses, relieved and happy all at once. She felt slightly ashamed for thinking he would be so upright as to send her away, but perhaps the Christopher Foyle she held close in her arms was a new version...a man who had taken a leap of faith and landed quite soundly and was no longer tentative.

That he wanted her by him in life was an overwhelming but wonderful thought, and it was what she wanted more than anything. To be without him seemed unfathomable. She had perhaps not given him enough credit, and it was a relief to know that he would not exclude her or retreat behind walls previously built at this moment. He had opened himself to her and she saw that they were linked undoubtedly by the intimacy that had been shared. They had shared their bodies, but it was more than that - _deeper_ , even.

The practicalities of what faced them, while daunting perhaps, were overshadowed by the rightness and truth of the feelings they shared. It felt right, so how could it _not_ be? They hurt no one by proceeding in life together, and after so many years of war, how could _love_ be anything but positive.

They whispered to one another: sweet things, practical things, dreams, and words of love. They were in awe of one another as well as the feeling that had suddenly captured them. How could one feel so deeply for another in so many ways? It was remarkable to Sam as well as to Foyle. He whispered to her that he hadn't believed he could feel this way again, instilling a sense of pride in Sam. Foyle's bedroom became a small love nest as the afternoon inched forwards, holding the two lovers in suspension. They knew not the hours nor were they inclined to think about the outside world. It was _their_ time at last.

It was only when Sam exclaimed how hungry she was that Foyle glanced at his bedside clock.

His eyes widened. "It's nearly three o'clock!"

"Won't we have been missed?"

Foyle nodded and sat up. "I expect so."

Sam began to giggle. "If they are sending out search parties, we'd better get dressed."

Foyle grinned down at her. "I suppose we better had."

By four o'clock they had washed and dressed and sat down to a meal of mixed things, including biscuits, tea, and a tin of spam with the last of the bread.

"How do we go about it from here?" Sam asked seriously after they had finished.

"Honestly," Foyle said simply.

Sam nodded, smiling softly at him. "Father would approve."

"Of the honesty bit or of us?"

"Would it shock you if I said I don't mind what Father says?" She tapped her fingers against the table and then frowned. "I realised when thinking about the last few days that perhaps one ought to live their life truly - so that one isn't regretful at the end. Life is so short. I choose you...and it's my life isn't it? I've always tried to do what was expected of me...to be good and demure. But it still never led to approval. _Never_. What if one is better off doing what feels best for oneself?"

Foyle took her hand and squeezed it lightly. He smiled at her and she thought he look almost proud. "We'll ask for their blessing, but I think you're right, Sam...You are a strong young woman and also very kind; you could never intentionally hurt anyone."

She smiled back. "Besides, things have changed now with the war. Life as it was before seems hardly recognisable. And yes, we've done things out of order...but does it truly matter?"

"A part of me thinks it does, but the other…" Foyle paused. "I've been in two wars, Sam, and life seems very transient. I don't want to miss out on any more than I can help it."

Sam kissed him. "Precisely."

"Will you ring them up?"

"Yes. Mummy will be on board, even if Father isn't."

"Well, that's something."

"And Andrew? Paul?"

"Milner probably will think it's lovely. And Andrew, well...I would hope that he would be glad to see us happy."

"And the chaps at the station?"

"No one need know yet, if you're worried, Sam."

"I'm not worried, but it's more...well, it's only just become _ours_...I almost want to keep it just for us for the time being."

Foyle smiled, understanding. "Then we do that."

His face clouded briefly, "Though I haven't done my part in protecting you, Sam...we do have to keep that in mind...time may be of the essence."

Sam blushed a rather becoming pink and smiled shyly. "Gosh, yes." She chewed her knuckle and then added, "But I don't need a big church wedding...we can keep things quiet and personal."

"We will do whatever you like." Foyle stood and came around the kitchen table to gather her in his arms. "My wonderful darling." He nuzzled her cheek and kissed her sweetly.

"We have each other...that's all that matters," Sam said quietly.

"Indeed," Foyle agreed, hugging her more tightly.

"But, first things first," Sam said, clearing her throat. "We need to buy in some rations for you."

Foyle began to chuckle and before they knew, they were both laughing loudly, eyes sparkling with their newfound intimacy and the promise of life together. While they still had questions of how to make things work in the practical sense, there was no doubt about being together. A bridge had been crossed, and they both leapt forward gladly into a new life that promised love and friendship. There were more questions than answers, perhaps, but for now, those could wait.

Sam and Foyle left Steep Lane in the late afternoon, moving together towards a new life with the same purpose and determination they had shown their work. In a world where there were so many uncertainties, the love they shared was not one of these doubts.


End file.
